


Crescent

by glim



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9414860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: Morse stops and runs a hand through his hair, then gazes down at his wrist. The mark is usually faint, barely visible against the blue criss-cross of veins; a small symbol now vivid against his skin.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jay_eagle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/gifts).



"No," is the first thing Morse says when he realizes the import of the mark on his wrist, then bites off a laugh at the exasperation on Thursday's face. 

"No?" Thursday pulls his arm back, rolls down his sleeve, and shakes his head. "Well. You could've done worse, surely." 

"I didn't mean--" Morse stops and runs a hand through his hair, then gazes down at his wrist. The mark is usually faint, barely visible against the blue criss-cross of veins; a small symbol now vivid against his skin. "I surely could have," he says, finally, and reaches across his lap to take Thursday's hand into his own. 

There, on the inside of his left wrist, the same small sign, hidden from everyday sight by his watch band and shirt cuff. Morse traces the shape with the end of one finger. 

"I didn't think-- I couldn't think this would happen. To me. For _me_." His voice drops, threatens to break, and beneath his fingertip is a small half-moon, a lunate sigma, a lacuna, the same, small curved sign as his own. 

It would be easier to laugh than to deal with the rush of emotions. But he doesn't laugh, not at all; he brings Thursday's wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the symbol. 

"When?" Morse asks. "When did you know? How long have you been waiting?" 

"Oh, years now. Twenty or so? Maybe a bit longer. You look surprised." Thursday turns his hand to cup the side of Morse's face, gentle and warm. 

Morse shrugs. "Not so long for me. Only when I came to Oxford, the first time." 

"I wish I'd known," Thursday says. 

"You couldn't've." 

"No, and everything would be different. We're better off this way, knowing now." He touches the side of Morse's face again. "But you let me know, when you're comfortable. With the idea--with everything. Not all soulmates--"

"You're married," Morse interrupts. 

Thursday nods. "Not all soulmates marry each other," he says, "and you shouldn't assume." 

"Assume?" Morse frowns. 

"Assume you know how my marriage works. Anyway," Thursday adds, and this time touches Morse's hair, smoothing it down. "There's time for that. There's time for everything for us to do whatever we decide to." 

Morse catches Thursday's hand again before he can take it away. He doesn't assume or presume anything--or, at least, he's trying his best not to. All he knows is this: that the blank space, the missing piece, the lacuna inside him, the one deep in his chest and beyond his heart, had been filled before he's taken the time to realize. 

*

Nothing changes.

(Everything changes.) 

Nothing changes but the space inside Morse and the space between him and Thursday. One grows, expands to accommodate the warmth and optimism that Morse cannot help but feel; the other narrows, in small subtle ways, between the brush of hands and shared glances. 

Work doesn't change, and Morse finds that he doesn't want it to. He doesn't yearn for anything more from Thursday there; he cannot, he knows this, and there is a sharpness to it, a sting, that is both pleasurable and painful. 

This is what he yearns for: the warmth of touch in their quiet moments alone, the rush of breath against his neck, and the feel of hands holding him down. 

"Not all soulmates are lovers," is what Thursday meant to say to him that first night, and he says it at least twice after that. He says it with measured care, and Morse knows he's trying to give Morse the space he needs, to let him weigh his uncertainty. 

But Morse is certain. He knows how his heart works, he knows there is space yet left inside it for this newness, this change, this fullness of feeling. 

*

"Like this?" Thursday asks and skims the flat of his hand from Morse's shoulder to his chest, down to his hip. 

Morse nods, not shy, not uncertain, but enthralled by the touch. Thursday's had one drink, and his body is warm and relaxed on the bed next Morse. 

Morse, though, Morse has had two, and he's almost wishing for a third when his hand trembles as he reaches brush Thursday's hair from his face. Thursday nods into the touch, smiling, and leans in closer to kiss Morse. 

And then he suddenly wishes he hadn't had anything to drink, nothing that would blur his senses or take away from the rawness of every touch, every kiss, every slide of skin against skin. Thursday kisses Morse again and presses his thumb into the hollow of his hip, firm enough to keep Morse in place. 

Morse yearns up into the touch anyway, his body arching up off the bed, up off the tangled sheets and blankets in his small, dimly lit bedroom. He imagines his body is the curved crescent moon, the taught sigma shaped like the moon, a cup waiting to be filled. 

Thursday kisses and kisses him, murmurs encouragement and comfort between kisses, strokes his palm over Morse's hip until he's half hard and ready for more. 

"I've been waiting for this," Morse says, his breath catches fast in his throat when Thursday murmurs 'me too' in a low voice. "It's nothing like I thought... You are nothing like I expected." 

Thursday laughs, low and deep, and kisses the angle of Morse's jaw as he turns aside, abashed. "Nor are you," he says, "but it's better... so much..." 

Morse gasps a 'yes' and 'you' and 'so much better' as he returns the kisses. Oh, he has wanted this, to be needed and yearned after himself, to feel the skin-heat of desire. His hands map over Thursday's shoulders and down his chest, and then Morse just keeps touching him, drawing him close. 

Then there is no closer, no way for them to be more than this: hands and lips and the touch of warm skin and firm, strong hands. Morse cries into the touch, desperate and needy and hard, and doesn't feel that need diminish until they are both spent and satisfied.


End file.
